


The Team on Con

by Gaiusan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Convention, Gen, Hippies, Humor, Revenge, Road Trip, Team, Vacation, secret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaiusan/pseuds/Gaiusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Administrator takes ill and sends the guys to a mercenary convention in Orlando. On the way, Scout discovers a touchy secret of Sniper's and Sniper hustles to keep him quiet, on top of the responsibility to keep his teammates from their destructive habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Hammocker for editing.

  

“Miss Pauling, a lozenge!”  rasped the Administrator, followed by a long, phlegmy hack.

“Yes, ma’am!” cried the young woman. In seconds, her faithful assistant was beside her with a colorful pellet in her outstretched palm.

“Oooh, the week I’ve had.” The older woman sniffled as she snatched up the pill. “I feel like there’s a cheese grater in my throat. I simply can’t allow my idiots to hear me like _this_. It might undermine my authority! I do hate to admit it, but I may need to take a rest from announcing. We’ll have to occupy them with-” she bent towards her microphone. “Time has been added.” She hissed in her usual arrogant tone. It clearly pained her to speak above a whisper.

“P-perhaps we could give the mercs some paid vacation.” uttered Miss Pauling.

“Oh, heavens no! We can’t have those plankton getting the notion that they’re remotely deserving of time off.”

“Maybe we could have them invade a sparse, neutral country, then?”

“Hm. I do _detest_ the Scandinavians… another time, perhaps, when I can enjoy their suffering more. Come now, Miss Pauling, you’re better than this.”

“Well, there _is_ a mercenary convention in Orlando this weekend. We found-”

“Yes, yes, make it happen. Just get them out of my hair!”

“Yes, ma’am.” said Miss Pauling over a flood of incessant hacking.

\+ + + + +

            “Gah! It- the- my head! His bird crapped on my head!” stuttered Scout.

            “Doc, keep the berd shit ta yahself.” called Sniper from the driver’s seat. “ _Better on that little brat’s head than all over my van.”_ the marksman thought to himself. Scout and Medic were certainly not the worst of the guys to be stuck with, but he was far from thrilled by their presence. Scout was obnoxious albeit tolerable on his own, and Medic had interesting stories to tell when he was not volunteering his teammates for his sadistic experiments, but put them together in a locked car for a road trip… well, at least Medic was bothering Scout instead of him.

            “Ah we theeh yet? I’m not sure how much moah I can take a’ this loopy bastad!”

            Sniper smiled, amused. Most of the team responded to Medic’s demeanor with respect, or at least tolerance. After all, he kept the BLUs from scattering their body parts to every corner of the map. When you are being shot, bludgeoned, stabbed, and scorched, you want Medic to like you. But Scout, being his stubborn self, projected his rudeness onto everyone without distinction. “Fa the hundredth time, we’re not theh yet.” He responded good-naturedly. “Honestly Scout, we only left half’n hour ago.”

            “Guh, ya got a towel lyin’ around heah, Snipes?” he asked as he rummaged about the vehicle’s flank.

            “Yeh, theh’s-” Sniper was cut short by Heavy’s Volkswagen Beetle –that had been following close behind him- hurtling past his camper, trailing smoke. In the corner of his eye Sniper glimpsed Heavy’s flailing form in the driver’s seat and Spy desperately trying to maintain his composure despite being alight. “Oh, Pyro.” he muttered. Before the trip the team had agreed to relieve Pyro of his flamethrower, his flare gun, and just about anything that could generate friction; so much for all that. Pyro was Pyro and Pyro burned things. Taking away his means was not about to change that.

            “He-hey, what’s this?” called Scout from the interior of the van. Sniper turned, spotted a cascade of red and orange and- and his heart stood still. He whipped his head back to the road to keep Scout from seeing the expression of horror that crossed his face. He hastened to compose himself. “Hale give you one of ‘is, uh, hippie pelts?” prodded the young man. Sniper said nothing. Scout strode up to him and held it in his peripheral view, little brat, so that he could no longer ignore the tie-die shirt that the little yapper had dug up. “’Ey, Snipes! Ey, ya haven’t ansahd my question.”

            “No. It ain’t a hippie pelt.”

            “Wait, huh? What is it, then? Whataya tryin’ ta tell me? Ah ya- oh my gaud, heh-heh, this…heh… this is yahs?” Scout burst into laughter.  “Yah… yah… one ah- ha!- you’ah one ah those-ha!- those guys! Oh, ho ho ho. This is too rich. This is-” Sniper’s fragile composure shattered. He slammed on the break, the car skidded to and fro, and came to a halt. Scout’s face was pressed firmly onto the dashboard. His mouth, for once, was closed. “Ow. What was’at-?”he started before Sniper’s uncharacteristic glare cut him off. “Listen ya little puke.” hissed the older man. “You run yeh little mouth about this te anyone and I’ll shove Jarate so fah down ye throat y’ll be coughin’ up piss ‘till New Years. Got it?”

            Scout’s lower lip trembled. “Y-yah, Snipes, I got it. Alright, I’ll-eh-I’ll do that. Yah.”

            “N’ that goes feh you too, Doc!” grumbled Sniper, though it was clear that Medic was in his own world, sitting in the back of the van and fiddling with a children’s chemistry set. He probably did not notice the exchange that’d just taken place, or the shirt’s appearance. Sniper turned back to Scout. “Now you go put that back wheh ye found it.”

            “Yah, ya-ya got it… Snipes.”

            Sniper breathed a sigh of relative relief, but the encounter had left a lump in his chest. His feelings toward his free-spirited past were mixed, but he did wish to forget it. He was younger; older than he’d like to admit, but younger nonetheless, and the world had felt so different. He now realized that it was just a phase, that at heart he _was_ a cold blooded assassin. But it was a phase that, if discovered, would certainly result in his dismissal from Mann Co. at best, assuming that his boss didn’t make him into a rug.

            Sniper spied Heavy’s car parked haphazardly beside a rundown gas station up ahead. Sniper pulled his camper in beside it. Seconds later Engineer’s pickup truck rattled to a stop as well. Sniper hopped out onto the hot asphalt. Spy was leaning against the scathed Beetle, a nasty smirk on his face. His suit was charred black and its left arm had disintegrated, exposing his lanky forearm. Sniper nodded as he passed him, a gesture that Spy was too enthralled in bitterness to acknowledge. Heavy knelt beside his vehicle’s popped trunk, his arms wrapped tightly around a thick, handled barrel with an iron cylinder beneath-his precious minigun. “Is alright, Sasha. Nobody hurt you. It is alright.” the big man whispered to the weapon. Sniper let him be.

            “Hay, don’t let that monsteh neah the pumps!” beckoned Scout, pointing an accusatory finger at Pyro. “Remembah what happened last time we stahped fah gas.”

            It seemed even Sniper’s threats could not keep Scout quiet for long. That was worrying. He was right though. There were a lot fewer gas stations around because of that- thing. Engineer strode from his pickup to Pyro and led him away from the pumps, which he had already begun to examine with curiosity. The little man gently coaxed the lighter- he must have smuggled it with him somehow- from Pyro’s gloved hands. Engineer’s empathy and tolerance with Pyro was beyond the rest of the team’s comprehension. Sniper had overheard several of his teammates speculating on it, but they were too loopy, drunk, stupid, or some combination thereof to reach any conclusion that did not involve “telepelepathy” as Soldier had dubbed it.

            Eager to escape the raw dysfunction of his comrades, Sniper made his way to the garage. It was a relatively new building, concrete with faded green paint. The interior was lit by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling and bits and pieces of automobiles were strewn about the floor, but there was no sign of a complete vehicle anywhere. There were no signs of recent life. Sniper wouldn’t be surprised if the place had been abandoned. He gave a shout. “’Oye!”

            “What is it?” came a nasty voice from behind. Sniper whipped about and instinctively grabbed for his kukri. No, it was not Spy. A handsome young man in a green jumpsuit stood in the reflection of the sunlight, his face warped into a begrudging sneer. He spoke again. “What do you want, buddy?”

            Sniper did not have the patience for this. “Whacheh problem?” he hissed.

            “Heh. Don’t think I don’t know a red when I see one.”

            “Yeh, I’m with RED. What’s it to ye?” It took a second for Sniper to realize that the boy wasn’t referring to the company he worked for. “Bloody… I’m not _that_ type eh red, ye dimwit.”

            “Don’t play dumb! I can smell a communist rally from two states away. We’ll, that’s not gonna fly here, buddy. Don’t expect me to fix things for you when it all goes up in smoke.”

            “ _What!?_ ” came a bellow from behind the boy. Soldier had no sooner appeared then he’d wrapped his meaty hands around the young man’s throat and held his now-terrified face close to his own. “Listen up, maggot! I wear my read in conjunction with blue- and, uh, white! I spent the best years of my life defending this nation, and I’ve killed more gas station attendants than I can count on one finger. I am not afraid to do it again! Do you understand me!?”

            But the boy had fainted by the time Soldier had exclaimed “Listen up, maggot”. “’E can’t ‘eah ye, yank.” grunted Sniper as he strode past Soldier. It was lucky that Engineer was all the mechanic they needed. Today’s brush with stupidity was not the first time his team had been accused of being a posse of communists, and Soldier’s reaction to it was nothing new. If nobody stopped him, he would continue yelling at the unconscious mechanic for hours on end. “Get ap, ye confounded sack eh FDA-approved beef! E’s not list’nin!”

            Soldier stopped his barking and examined the motionless, spittle-spattered face that he held pinned to the asphalt. He rubbed his chin for an inquisitive moment and threw his finger up in discovery. “Ah-ha! Good call, Aussie. No need to interrogate this one, right?”

            “Ugh. Yeh, roight.” Sniper was exhausted and antsy, the revelation of his secret to a blabbermouth still burning in his mind. Matches with the BLUs were ideal for venting annoyance and worry when his team was at its least bearable, in no small part for the satisfaction of putting a bullet through their doppelgangers’ brains. The echoing shout, the elegant swath of blood- the quiet satisfaction he derived was not present on this trip, just when he needed it most.

            “It’ll take ‘bout a half hour to get’is car in tip-top shape.” announced Engineer, mostly to himself. “Just gotta wrangle up some parts from that there garage and we should be good to ride out.”

            Could Sniper wait that long? No, he had to get up and go somewhere, had to keep _moving_. His tried and tested patience shattered. “Absolutely, not. We’h leavin’ right this bloody second.”

            “But- my car…” protested Heavy, still cradling his minigun like an infant.

            “Nah, no way. Gotta get to the hotel by check-in, we’ll pick it up on ‘e way back.” Sniper hurried to his camper and looked back at the team. “Whatcheh wait’n feh? Get goin’.” It was lucky that only Sniper and Engineer knew the time table they had to keep, and the latter seemed to be accommodating Sniper’s mood. Half of the team did not even know where they were going, so they could hardly complain- barring Scout of course, but he had been subdued by threats of urine consumption.

            Medic hurried from a side door of the garage like a child with money to spend. “Australian!” he gasped through Sniper’s side window. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I found zees syringes floating in ze toilets! Ha. I voneh how ze patient vout react if I atted _rat poison_ to zehm.” He looked up at the marksmen hopefully.

            “Not feh me, Doc. I gotta drive.” Sniper repressed a smile. That little bugger would pay for laughing at him, for making him lose his composure. “But if ye keep ‘is between us, I won’t stop ye from doin’ yeh impohtent research on ‘e young, ‘ealthy blabbehmouth ridin’ with us.”

            “Oh, zahnk you, herr buschmann! Zis vill be über messy!” Medic laughed as he hurried into the back of the van to await his patient. Sniper’s thoughts drifted to the twenty hours of vindictive entertainment that he was about to receive, and the knot in his chest loosened just a bit.


	2. Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to Hammocker for editing.

 

            Three exploded gas stations, two unconscious mechanics, and one hospital visit later, the team stumbled in to the Crimson Fields Hotel. It was a high-class marble and hardwood establishment- at least two stars higher than any of the mercs was used to.

            Sniper’s eyes were glazed over from the stark repetition that came from hours of driving- and a few other things. Scout and Medic had not caught any rest either, much to the displeasure of the former and to the thrill of the later. Engineer’s passengers had fared far better. Pyro riding in the front cabin with Engineer, at Engie’s own suggestion, let the others find some relative peace of mind in the flank of the truck. Engineer revealed no exhaustion through his reflective goggles, but it was clear from his slumping posture that he was sleep-deprived.

            An attentive-looking young woman sat at the reception desk. Engineer was obligated to keep an eye on Pyro, which made Sniper the de-facto spokesmerc. He slumped towards her. “REDs.” he mumbled.

            “You’re two hours late for check-in!” she announced with inhumane perkiness.

            Sniper glanced at his wristwatch: a quarter past one in the morning. His worries had faded behind a mask of exhaustion. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “Roight. Room keys. C’mon, sheila.”

            “Yes, sir!” She thrust a single red-tagged key towards him.

            Sniper stared at the key for a moment. “Whah’s ‘at? ’Eh’s nine of us ‘eah, y’know?”

            “You have one double room booked! Fourth floor!” she announced in a singsong voice more bitter than any bullet. “Enjoy your stay!”

            Sniper scowled and led his comrades up, deciding to withhold the news until they were well away from the receptionist, for her sake and for the sake of their arrest records. They traversed the stairs; the elevator was out of order of course. Why their secretive employers had booked them in a four-star hotel but confined them to a single room was beyond Sniper’s understanding, but it wasn’t their only inexplicable inconsistency. The lunches that they left on the maps were arranged elegantly on silver trays- but consisted of rock-hard sandwiches topped with mayonnaise that had expired in the late fifties and what seemed to be the remains of a cow that’d spent half an hour with Pyro. Be it a bureaucratic error or a nasty joke, most of the team brought their own food.

Before Sniper realized it he found himself in front of their room. He turned to the others, who were looking at him expectantly. They probably wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor- one evening while driving home he’d found Soldier curled up in the middle of the road- but staying in a room together… he spit it out. “Eurgh. Bloody administration decided ‘at we’h sharin’ a room.”

            There was a rumble of discontentment.

            “Na na na na na na, no way am I sleepin’ anywheh neah ya freaks!”

            “That psychopath already ruined one of my suits.”

            “I brought van handred and zirty tooth brashes und zey a ahll for me!”

“In the war men slept fifty feet apart! _American_ feet! Measured with _American_ rulers! You know why? Because a foot is bigger than a kilogram, that’s why!"

Pyro was the only one who did not seem to mind, but, as always, it was impossible to tell.

“Now, hold it!” piped up Engineer. “’F we all just keep to our own corners we should be A-Okay, raght Sniper?”

“Roight, roight. Jus’ don’ wake ‘e hole buildin’ up.” Sniper threw open the door. The room was about what he had expected: two queen-sized beds with a gross excess of pillows sat side by side against the left wall. Across from the beds were an oak dresser, desk, and chair.

Heavy nudged past Sniper, his minigun resting on  his shoulder. He lowered the massive weapon on the first of the two beds. “This is Sasha’s bed.” he stated bluntly.

“Hey, whay should I give ap my bed fah that thing?” exclaimed Scout.

Heavy shrugged. “It is only gentleman thing to do for a lady.”

Spy rolled his eyes. “It didn’t seem to mind riding in the trunk of your car.”

“She.” Heavy’s voice had shifted to a dangerous tone. He stalked towards Spy, enunciating each word with every step. “This. Is. Sasha’s. Bed!” He barked the final word inches from the Frenchman’s face.

“Fine.” Spy said, confident as ever. “Far be it from me to step between a man and his... lover. Of course, that begs the question: who gets the other bed?”

“Fihst!” Scout bounded forward and bounced on the other mattress.

 “Well, I’m going to stay far away from _it_.” Spy thrust an accusing finger at Pyro. He climbed into the bed with Scout and slid under the covers, barely displacing the sheets. “Move over, idiot.”

“Ey, ‘ey! Aff the bed, pally. ‘is mahn sleeps alone.” Scout skirted to the far edge of the bed as if Spy was a plague victim.

Engineer piped up. “Fer cryin’ out loud, it’s a double bed, Scout!”

Scout shifted uncomfortably. “Yeh, yeh… fine. Just stay on yah side, ya friggin’ sadist!” he said, pointing at Spy.

Sniper’s prediction was right; nobody seemed to mind the floor. Soldier had overturned the desk and had barricaded himself in a corner, cordoning off his area with barbed wire he had brought from home. Engineer sat against a wall beside Pyro, struggling to stay awake long enough to coax his combustion-savvy teammate to sleep. Demoman was already on the ground, muttering “Dun’t tuch me whiskey.” repeatedly, so drunk that he would not discern between a hotel room floor and a pile of broken bottles. Heavy was propped up against the foot of his weapon’s bed, snoring heartily, and Medic had locked himself in the bathroom and was muttering feverishly; something like: “Zerr brazshes… luwah bicaspits, yez, very gout, Ahchimedes… very clean!” Convinced that nobody would go on a killing spree this evening, Sniper finally allowed himself to slump to the ground, throwing his hat under his head as a pillow. Exhaustion quickly overtook worry, and the marksman fell into a restless sleep.

\+ + + + +

            Sniper was the first to wake. He rubbed his eyes to clear out the crust that had liberally formed about them over the night, hoisted himself up and rotated his shoulders to toss off his morning stiffness. Sunlight filtered lazily through the room. He savored the relative quiet for a moment; then, as his eyes drifted over the young man sleeping with uncharacteristic tranquility on one of the beds, yesterday’s situation came flooding back into his conscious. His feral past revealed, Scout’s peppy attitude that had followed, his hasty stab of revenge that may or may not have given the young man reason to spill his secret- Sniper hurried into the bathroom, once again seeking solitude. At some point during the night, Medic had evacuated the WC. The floor was littered with dozens of brutalized toothbrushes that Sniper took care to avoid. He pulled back the curtains to see if the crazed doctor had done anything to defile the shower; he had not. Sniper pulled off his clothes, flicked the tap, and waited for the water to warm up.

He glanced down and a flashback of the distant past hit him full on: grass, shouts, laughter, the marksman gracefully ignoring the looks of horror on their faces as he strode about - “Streakin’. Bloody ‘ell, the streakin’.” He muttered. “Only did i’ once, beh still…” Even then he had been the calm type, usually sitting cross-legged beside his van, deep in meditation for hours on end. None of those prancing ninnies throwing their clothes to and fro, protesting this and the other… but Scout didn’t know that, and Sniper was certain that he’d use his imagination to form just such a wild image of his older teammate. “Just ‘ad te get myself into som’in, din’t I? ‘ow’d I eveh bring m’self to do all ‘at?” He shuddered, visions of mockery and judgment from his team and the BLUs alike creeping about in his head. What if the BLU Sniper had the same background? If so, what if he spilled the beans? There was too much not to know, too much that he’d never considered. There was a painfully ironic aspect to his current situation as well. In a small way, he still meditated. It helped him concentrate just before a kill, gave him the little push of From the sink came a loud hoot. Sniper jumped.

Perching on the marble countertop, unnoticed until a moment ago, was Archimedes, one of Medic’s pigeons. In his beak was a string of purple cloth knotted together at both ends. His head was cocked to one side, inquisitive. “Coooh-?” the animal pondered.

It seemed that his past had come to haunt him once again. The band- a headband, to be precise- belonged to Sniper. Shocked, enraged, he lunged forward in an attempt to snatch the band from the Archimedes’ grip. The bird panicked, screeched, and shot up in a flurry of feathers. Had the colorful headband not slipped from his grip, Sniper would have had to inform Medic that Archimedes had fled during the night; and there would be some bloody feathers to dispose of as well. “Bloody li’l beastie!” Sniper hurried into the still-chilled shower and yanked the curtains shut, shocked and infuriated by the little bird’s omen-like appearance. Did the bird dig it up in the van? Was it Scout’s doing? Sniper washed quickly, eager to get away from Medic’s demonic pigeon. Archimedes was resting on the shower rack when Sniper stepped out. The mercenary yanked a towel out from under him, once again sending the bird into frenzy. Sniper threw open the door to their extravagant lodging and slung the towel around his waist. He looked about, worried that his bout in the bathroom had awoken his team. Demoman, Heavy, Sasha, Spy- his eyes fixated on Scout. The young man was lying on his side, eyes thrown wide open, his face tinted pink. Upon recognizing Sniper’s hard glare directed at him he rolled over, disguising his face from the older man, trying, quite unconvincingly, to imitate slumber. The reaction was peculiar, a distinctive hint of weakness that he’d not expected of the young man.

Sniper redressed. He could have some relative privacy in the lobby. He took his time walking down the stairs, working out the kinks and stiffness that often followed long periods of inactivity. The lobby was staffed by the same chipper, crisp, manicured young woman as the previous night. “Good morning, Mister Red!” she greeted.

With flat disinterest Sniper realized that this was not the same receptionist- the voice was slightly higher-pitched. “Hmhph.” He responded, stalking past her.

“Will you be enjoying the complimentary breakfast today, sir?” she asked.

Sniper tapped his stomach. Now that he considered it, he was rather hungry. “Ymhph.” he responded in the affirmative.

Sniper wandered into the dining hall, a series of linen-topped tables arranged about the velvet-draped windows through witch only marginal light filtered. Only a handful of guests were dining, speaking softly amongst themselves, radiating confidence and aristocratic pride. Sniper took the most obscure seat he could find, nestled at the far end of the room- as if that would keep his team away. He glanced down at the menu which lay in front of him. The page was largely blank, with a handful of dishes written in tiny, cursive letters. The characters were far too small to read without very close examination; other guests’ faces were pressed closely to their menus, squinting intently in hopes of finding at least one legible dish. Sniper didn’t bother. Within seconds, a perky waiter approached him and asked in harshly endowed tone not dissimilar to the receptionist’s, “What can I get for you this morning, sir?”

“Eggs.” Sniper replied, just above a whisper.

“And how would you like those-“

“Eggs.” The marksman repeated.

“Yes sir!” responded the waiter, miraculously tolerant of the marksman’s rudeness. Now, how would he hold up to the others?

Sniper glanced Heavy scurrying past the dining room, clutching his shoulder. There was something off about the lumbering Russian, a sort of strange, juvenile satisfaction of sorts that Sniper had never seen in the big man. He didn’t think on it, though. What mattered what that Heavy didn’t stop to chat.

“Gah! Hey, hey, what was’at fah?” came a cry from the lobby moments later. _Oh, bloody…_ thought Sniper. Scout tumbled into the dining room, rubbing his eyes harshly, running into tables and chairs, sending silverware flying, leaving a trail of minor disorder behind him. Sniper watched, hoping that his teammate didn’t notice him- but he did. A few moments later Scout navigated to Sniper’s table and took a seat across from him, leaning back as casually as he could. His eyes were glowing red and watering heavily.

“’Ey. That loopy broad at the desk shaaht me with somthin’! Guess ‘at’s what a couple ah casual compliments getcha, eh, Snipes? ”

            Before Sniper could respond with some form of grunt, the waiter appeared once more. “What can I get for you, sir?” he asked Scout.

            Scout took notice of the menu. “Whadda hell does ‘is say? What kinda freak ya need ta be ta read ‘is crap! Baudette... atrufay… I dated a gal named Baudette in school, ya know. Best-”

            The waiter stooped down slightly. “That would be the brouillade aux truffes, sir.”

            “Uh-huh, yeah, what ‘bout ‘is one? Broad ‘n battah… ‘ey, ‘at’s me! An ‘at one, waal ya at it.”

            The waiter listed off each menu item as Scout failed to say them, regurgitating the lengthy description of each dish verbatim from the menu. Another waiter set two uncooked eggs, still in their shells in front of Sniper, but the marksman was too enflamed to recognize the fact.

            Sniper ground his fingers into the hardwood table, leaving visible marks on its underside. Much more of this incessant torture and he’d end up as psychopathic as his teammates. Enough was enough. “List’n, Scout.” He leaned forward like a salesman making a pitch. “Found ‘is-” He whipped out the headband from his vest pocket and tossed it onto the table. “-in ‘e bathroom. Now, maybe it was Medic what found it in me campeh. Oh maybe you did. Ah- ah really can’t tell, mate. Bah if ‘eh highah ups get a hold’eh me…” He pondered what Scout might consider valuable. “I can’ give ye any more of ‘ose Jarate pills ye keep askin’ feh. So if yeh messin’ with me, don’t expect nothin’ good te come of- eh…” He paused. Scout was playing absentmindedly with his dog tags, gazing indifferently downward, as if saying, “Is ‘is really aull ya taulkin’ fah?”

“Oye!” Sniper hissed. The marksmen rifled around in his pocket once again, whipping out a single, empty jar. He slammed it on the table, very nearly shattering the container to pieces. That caught Scout’s slippery attention. “Ye think I’ve been playin’ don’cha?” His tone was dangerously low, vicious, feral. “Medic’s playtime with ye weren’t enough, eh?”

“Wait, wait, ya let ‘im do all ‘at crap ta me?” Scout exclaimed in disbelief.

Sniper ignored Scout’s comment. “Well ‘en-” Sniper raised the jar again. He held it up in the air for an instant. With a vibrant crash he brought the brought it down on the two solid eggs in front of them, mashing them to bits and spattering yolk across the table.

            Scout was horrified, gasping like a fish drawn up on land. It took him a long moment for him to regain enough composure to speak. “He...hey, Snipes! Don’t warry about it! Ah’m n-n-at gonna tell ‘em!” he chuckled. His was shaking violently. Sniper crossed his arms, subconsciously hissing, “Yeh gonna need moah then that, mayte”.

Scout never met Sniper’s eyes. “I… take ya real serious.” he said, giving up on his falsified demeanor. “Dinn’ quite realize ‘at yah’d get fiahed up ‘n all ‘at crap. Wouldn’ wanna… lose out on ya pills, ‘ey really help out, ya know?”

“Yeh, I know, ye little brat.”

            Sniper fell back in his seat and let out a long-delayed breath of relief. That was probably enough  to keep Scout quiet for the time being. The knots that’d formed all throughout him began to loosen. He wiped his egg-coated fingers on his vest. His hand was bleeding profusely, lanced with shards from the shattered jar. He would have to get Medic to take a look at that. That sadistic German bugger owed him a favor.


End file.
